


Pieces of Hell

by iridescentzen



Category: Hellraiser (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Study, Drama, F/M, Gen, Rape/Non-con Elements, Uncle/Niece Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentzen/pseuds/iridescentzen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sinfully sweet short stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces of Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: This is all dark fic. Themes: Sexual abuse, non-graphic rape, horror. If you are easily triggered, it would be best to not to go forward.
> 
> These short stories range from rated T – M as follows: Title: Talk – Rated T, Title: Promise – Rated M, Title: Wings – Rated T, Title: Laugh – Rated M, Title: Box – Rated M

Pieces of Hell

Title: Talk

Julia Cotton walked with a sway that was as deadly as a rattlesnake’s shake. The labyrinth was her home now; Leviathan was her God. Her mind had been expanded from the tunnel vision she had in life.

Not everything was about Frank Cotton.

Everything Frank Cotton had finished the moment she felt his knife intended for her far too clever step-daughter sliding into her gut. 

The truth was that she knew Frank had a deviant sexual interest in the girl and it irritated her beyond belief. It was bad enough that her boring husband lit up like a Christmas tree every time his daughter came to visit, but for the man who truly had Julia’s heart to desire the little bitch was disheartening. Still, she often wondered about Kirsty’s skittish behavior around her uncle. The girl craved attention like a lap dog from everyone. She wanted to be included except when it concerned her Uncle. It was possible he had taken Kirsty before. The thought of it disgusted her in more ways than one, but Julia knew Frank well enough to know the man had no boundaries.

Finally meeting up with her prey, Julia circled the studded cenobite who was known as, “Pinhead.” She just wanted to have a little talk. He was naturally nonplussed by her presence, barely tilting his head in her direction to acknowledge that he knew she was there. 

There was a reason he was Leviathan’s favorite.

“I heard she killed her husband,” Julia said, her blue eyes scrutinizing the demon. “And I thought we would never have anything in common.” Julia was, of course, referencing Kirsty and her recent fall from grace. “Four other people as well?” Julia inquired. “I’m so proud.” 

Pinhead blinked, regarding the woman with some disdain. 

This woman was linked to Frank Cotton, a despicable soul. She had a hand in killing her husband, Larry Cotton, Kirsty’s father. She was also the reason the Channard cenobite ever existed and was indirectly responsible in temporarily killing him and his gash. He had no benevolence where it concerned Julia Cotton no matter how sinfully sweet she was. 

“You test my patience,” he said simply, barely glancing in her direction. 

“Is it true?” Julia asked him in her dulcet tone of voice. “You want Kirsty as your consort?” The woman’s name rolled off Julia’s lips with audible distaste. 

If he did want her, then it further exacerbated Julia’s puzzlement as to why anyone would find Kirsty attractive let alone Hell’s reining champion. 

“Who are you to be asking these questions of me?” he asked, his eyes alight with the promise of violence. 

“Oh.” Julia’s lips pursed at his answer, then widened into a Cheshire cat smile taking his deflection to mean that he did want Kirsty. “It is true. That explains everything.”

“It explains nothing,” he stated wearily.

“It explains why you let her go.” She circled him again, in constant movement without moving much at all. “They say you even courted her this time.” She watched his face as though looking for a subtle tic that only she could find. “Baited the husband, did you? Did you know he would be exceptionally cruel with his delivery? That he would give the Lament configuration as an anniversary gift? Even I’m not that cold.” Julia continued circling him, keenly aware of the clinking chains she could hear in the distance. “Imagine that. Her own husband essentially gave her a loaded gun and asked her to blow her brains out so that he could have her money.” She smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. “Nothing but the best for our girl!” she said, enthused. 

Pinhead narrowed his eyes. “All problems solved.” 

“Yes, except that all problems weren't solved, right? You still want her and she is still not here.” 

“Do not fret. She will be here soon and I will give her the gift of tearing the skin from your body inch by inch,” he stated as though it were an unavoidable fact. 

“You’re such a sweet talker, but I highly doubt Daddy Leviathan would allow you to give me to our girl. He’s quite fond of me, you know.” Julia looked deep in thought. “Perhaps when she does arrive, I’ll give her to her Uncle.” This time when Julia smiled, it did reach her eyes. “Imagine what he would do to her after so many years of lusting and no release.” 

The demon snarled and brought up a weapon from his belt, a wicked looking curved blade. He pressed it to the woman’s throat, watching as a bead of blood appeared from the tip of the blade that was digging into her skin. She didn’t seem bothered by the action. Why would she though? She had been completely without skin on more than one occasion. 

“You know you can’t kill me,” she said, leaning into the blade’s tip, allowing more of her blood to trickle from the wound. 

“Killing you would be far too kind,” he assured her. 

Just then his attention was diverted by his diamond shaped God, whose voice thundered in his mind, insisting that no harm come to his pet. He was rendered impotent in the face of the cold woman, and he was far from happy about it. 

The pressure against Julia’s throat eased.

She laughed.

“Until next time, Prince,” she said, walking away with merriment still shining in her eyes. 

End.

Title: Promise

Kirsty Cotton was sixteen years old, curled up on her bed in a fetal position, blood and her uncle’s essence staining the insides of her thighs. As much as she was hurt, she was angry. It was the kind of anger that made her bones ache and her teeth clench. 

“I’m going to be the death of you,” she said, tears streaming down her bruised face. “I promise,” the words were said with such conviction that it momentarily gave Frank pause. 

Frank studied his niece for a moment: a piece of art work in his eyes. She was naked, shaking with exalted rage and luscious in her pain. Covered in wounds of battle with braces on her teeth and teenage awkwardness in her frame, she was the very epitome of a victim: his victim. He laughed at her then, hearty and deep. That Kirsty thought she was any match for him was amusing. “Ah, Kirsty. Cheer up,” he said while buckling his belt buckle, “Your dad just got married.”

The next time he saw Kirsty she was even more beautiful. There was a dark, alluring quality to her that was new. A halo of darkness surrounded her. Frank preened, wondering if he had been the cause of it … that darkness. Surely, he had been. Frank had plucked that forbidden fruit from its tree, bit into the sacred apple and enjoyed every moment of it. 

He was a man with no regrets. 

When Frank heard the bell toll, when he realized the little bitch had set him up, he felt a grudging respect for the slip of the girl he had so thoroughly used for his own pleasure, his niece. 

After all, she delivered on her promise. 

End.

Title: Wings

All that Hell and its God Leviathan had to offer was bestowed upon Kirsty Cotton upon her evolution. Her hair was as black as pitch, the corkscrew curls falling slightly past her shoulders. Two railroad spikes had been shoved into her skull; one on each side of her head each three inches tall mimicked devil horns, peeking out slightly above her hairline. Eyes that were once a warm chocolate brown were now completely black, devoid of the white sclera around the irises which made them look like pools of oil, inky and wet. When light hit upon those eyes, an iridescent halo appeared, making lower level demons scurry away in fear. The flesh above the bridge of her nose was pierced with a small but perfectly formed metacarpal bone. Ashen lips were vertically sewn shut with black leather cord. Leviathan wanted no words from the Cotton woman before she was re-created or after. Words were exactly the reason she had escaped so many times before. It was best to keep the tongue silent.

However, her lips were not her most defining feature. Protruding from her shoulder blades were a fibula and tibia, impaled there by forces unknown and joined to her skeletal system; attached were wings constructed of stretched ashen skin, the webbing that held them tight was a series of interconnecting bones of various shapes and sizes. Despite the fact that the grotesque wings looked as though they were not natural to her frame they moved with her; they were connected to her nervous system and twitched when she was uncomfortable, flapped when she was excited and spanned large and proud when she was feeling particularly confident or aroused. They were hers, part of her, maybe even constructed from pieces of her.

A leather corset, stiff and uncomfortable looking adorned her torso and it was paired with a skirt whose material was woven through her flesh on the outside of her thighs. A pattern of square patches of missing flesh made up a design across her chest. It was a tattoo of pain, exposed and glistening from her left collarbone to her right collarbone accentuating a generous amount of pale cleavage. Black combat boots covered her feet; the laces were piano wire that threaded through the flesh on the top of her feet before digging deeper into the meat of her ankles and calves. 

In the many levels of Hell and to those unfortunate enough to look upon her when the bell tolled, she was known only as “Wings.” 

To the pinned demon, she was and would always be … Kirsty. 

End

Title: Laugh

Kirsty’s playful laugh rang in his ears from her earthly dimension. He felt like he was choking on ash, because it was a genuine laugh, filled with love, ringing with happiness and he was suffocating on his own unexpected jealousy. 

Kirsty Cotton was his. Everything about her, he owned. 

The laugh was out of sorts in the labyrinth, but he heard it playing over and over again as did his gash, who fidgeted in the shadows. The Cenobites were uncomfortable with the emotion the audio transmitted to their realm and frightened by the ominous scowl that graced their leader’s face. 

Kirsty Cotton was in love. Kirsty was happy – and the studded demon was decidedly not. Every soul he reaped was more vicious than the last. The chains he commanded rattled and clinked chaotically, whip-like with his rage that seemed to have no end.

The day finally came when the young woman was asked to be married by the pitiful man she so adored, a man whose name was Trevor Gooden. The proposal was sudden and no ring was offered. There was no chivalry, no down on one knee and glittering engagement ring so common of the time. Simply a kiss shared between them and a question.

“Kirsty, will you marry me?” Trevor asked her, and she smiled a blinding smile; so bright the demon had to close his eyes briefly against the strange feeling it caused to well within him.  
She let out a strange feminine sound of joy and embraced the man, planting kisses on his thin, undeserving lips. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you, Trevor!” 

Kirsty laughed again, and from his throne in the labyrinth, the demon blinked, unsettled with the noise and how it reverberated within him like she was beneath his skin, a part of him. 

The demon watched as they celebrated their proposal with a round of love making, the man offending him to his very core by taking what was his and his only. His ire rose with every keening noise of pleasure that escaped Kirsty’s lips, with every tremble that ran through her body at Trevor’s touch. 

The man would do this to every woman he thought he had a chance with. There was nothing special about his touch, no genuine love. It was the act itself that Trevor so adored as carnal and hedonistic as it was. He was addicted to the pleasure. Not to the lips that he kissed or the heart his forked tongue professed to love.

When Kirsty reached her bliss, her eyes closing, her hips gyrating, the demon moved in. Catching her off guard while she was in the throes of passion, he put the image of his own face behind her closed eyes. He suffocated her with his own lust that was built from watching her and felt her body react to him, her orgasm rolling through her much more intensely than what was elicited by her soon to be husband. 

She felt him there as if the demon was with her and he preened at just how strong their connection was despite them being of two different worlds.

Kirsty opened her eyes briefly and saw only the pinned demon, his black eyes locked onto hers. One stark white hand kneaded her left breast; the other held her right hip in a bruising grip. She looked down at their joined bodies to see his pale, scarred form cradled by her hips and his thrusting welcomed between her legs as though he had always been there. Instead of being disgusted, her entire experience was heightened, alarmingly so. She was trapped as the two worlds merged, a victim to her mind and the demon’s machinations. 

“I love you,” Trevor whispered in her ear.

“I love you too,” she responded automatically, not sure if it was Trevor or the demon she was saying it to. She shook her head, attempting to right her world again, but it never would be. The demon was still there, still with her despite the years that had passed by. 

For the moment, Xipe Totec’s anger abated. Kirsty was his and there was enough lust, greed and deception in the man she planned on marrying that he was sure he could leave breadcrumbs of temptation for Trevor to follow. 

Until his trap was set and his quarry caught, the demon would watch enraptured every time she laughed. 

End.

Title: Box

AU.

The toll of the bell rings in the demon’s ears. Its incessant chime is more painful than the hundreds of mutilations mapped out across his flesh. Its noise pierces through his head, making the tips of the pins driven into his skull vibrate. 

The bell signals a lost soul following sin flavored breadcrumbs to find its way home. Someone has opened the lament configuration; his or her desire is as thick and as cloying as cigar smoke. 

The demon known as Pinhead can already taste the rot the soul has to offer. It’s a man in his mid-thirties who has a penchant for rape and who lines his pockets with the money of others. There is not one bit of him that looks as sleazy as his soul reveals he is. The man is impeccably dressed in a sharp black suit and tie and looks like a wholesome boy next door. 

However, something is not quite right as the man’s head is tilted to the side. The scent of blood perfumes the air and the demon is unsettled by the fact that it was not him or his gash responsible.

Buried in the crook of the man’s neck is a woman’s face, her features obscured by a thick swath of curly dark hair. She is standing behind the soul, her hands keeping him in place with an iron grip. 

The woman is Kirsty Cotton. She has apparently hijacked her way into his dimension, and the demon is glad for it, elated and surprised. It had been over a year since he felt her soul snuffed out, their connection lost. 

“I did what you wanted me to you stupid cunt. I opened the box now let me go!” the soul demands even as his life blood is being drained from him.

The woman disengages her mouth from the man’s throat, a trickle of blood dripping down her chin in a most enticing manner. “I think you owe me an apology first,” she says petulantly.

“For what?!” the man cries. 

“Well first for calling me a _cunt_ ,” Kirsty says, kicking him behind the knee. “What a nasty word.” 

The man falls to his knees on the ground beneath her. Pinhead commands his chains to attach to the soul’s flesh, his ears tingling with the sound of the man’s screams. 

The man finally looks in his direction, his eyes widening comically. “What the fuck is happening here? Who is this freak?!” he asks, his blue gaze firmly locked onto the studded demon.

Kirsty ignores his questions, intent on getting her apology. “Also, there was that little mishap in the alley – where you tried to rape me,” she says with nonchalance.

The chains pull tighter at those words, stretching the man’s skin inches away from his body like a rubber band. 

Kirsty’s eyes meet the demon’s eyes for the first time and he feels his skin prickle. She is breath taking. Whatever she is now, it is not human and the demon is enraptured. 

“Say you’re sorry for calling me a cunt and for trying to rape me,” she demands as if she were speaking to a child. 

The man screams as the metal in his flesh tears at his skin; pulled as it is every millimeter is one small agony closer to ripping apart. 

“I-I’m not sorry!” the man wails, unrepentant to the end.

Kirsty sighs as the chains tear the man apart, the blood spraying against her face and all over the room. She seems to revel in it, opening her mouth to drink it in.

“They never say sorry,” she says, fangs showing at the taste of blood.

“You are a child of Hell, Kirsty Cotton. The question is: what kind of child are you?” he asks.

“Vampire,” she informs him, moving faster than any human possibly could. He blinks and she is in front of him, scrutinizing him as much as he is her. “I have no soul. Technically, I’m dead. That’s why I had to hitch a ride. I couldn't open the box but oh, I wanted to. I wanted to so badly.”

She invades his personal space and before he can stop her, buries her incredibly sharp, long fangs into his neck. Nuzzling his pale skin, she drinks from him deeply and he allows it while being both aroused and amused.

Kirsty lets out a sensuous moan as his blood, thick and magical hits her tongue. It is an elixir, far better than any human blood she has ever tasted. It tastes ancient like a two thousand year old wine: bitter, dark and powerful. 

“I’ve been obsessed with your face,” she tells him, taking a moment to lick a small bead of blood from his neck. “Your blood is sky blue and tastes like the closest thing to Heaven that I will ever know.” 

The feel of her tongue on his skin is indescribable. It’s headier than any soul he’s reaped. He decides instantly that she will remain with him.

“I wish you to remain here at my side forever,” he tells her. “If you cannot sustain yourself on cenobite blood then you will drink from the souls of the damned.”

She smirks and answers, “Wish granted.”

End.


End file.
